


Crossing Paths

by BreakingMeSlowly



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BAMF John, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:32:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreakingMeSlowly/pseuds/BreakingMeSlowly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's "suicide", John Watson decides he needs to get away from it all. One well placed message to an old friend sends his life in a direction he never thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written anything in a very long time, and I have never written for either of these wonderful fandoms. After a weekend spent watching Sherlock BBC and Skyfall, this idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone.

_Betrayal hurts,_ John thought as he scrubbed his hands over his face to try and wipe the tears away. _I wasn't enough, of course I wasn't. I could never compare to someone like Sherlock. He was bound to grow bored with me eventually. It was inevitable, really._

 

John's thoughts grew more and more self-deprecating as the minutes passed. A spasm in his leg brought him back to the present and caused the newspaper clippings in his lap to fall to the floor. Agony tore through John like a white-hot knife as he leaned down to gently pick up a picture of Sherlock in his deer-stalker hat.

 

_Was I really so insignificant to you?_ John wondered as he softly traced a finger over Sherlock's face. Abruptly, John's hand balled into a fist, crushing the newspaper clipping as anger momentarily overwhelmed him. _What a heartless machine you are, you bastard! You deserve each other!_

 

He was so angry; at Sherlock, at Moriarty, but especially at himself, because even with everything that he knew, everything that he'd been subjected to, he was glad. He was glad that Sherlock was still alive, even though he knew that countless others would suffer because of it.

 

_Love is its own special brand of madness_ ,  John thought bitterly. _What else would skew my morals so completely that I could be okay with this.....be okay with Sherlock faking his own death and leaving with Moriarty to play their games._

 

In his head, thousands of hazy faces stared at him accusingly, silently blaming him for not doing anything to save them. But then his thoughts flashed to a bleeding, broken body lying on the concrete, his own fingers desperately searching for a pulse but finding none. He shuddered. _Anything but that_ , he told himself. _I could deal with anything but that._

 

The countless people who would soon have their lives destroyed due to the games of two bored psychopaths would not be his fault. After all, people die. That's what people do.

 

.................................

John stared down at the small USB drive in his hand, flipping it over and fidgeting with it as his thoughts spun. It was astounding, really, how the most innocuous looking things could have such a monumental effect on one's life.

 

One too many times of Sherlock expecting John to know something and then mouthing off about how it wasn't his fault that John wasn't in the flat to hear him tell him, had left John pissed off enough to do something about it. Sarah hadn't even asked any questions when he'd showed up and asked to borrow her computer, nor did she have any problems with John having a package delivered to her house.

 

Yes, the innocent looking USB drive that laid in his hands was a recording device capable of recording and storing hours upon hours of audio. That Sherlock never noticed it was a testament to just how distracted and out-of-sorts he was the last few weeks before the.....before.

 

In his grief it had taken John two full days before he remembered the USB and when he did he quickly grabbed it from its hiding spot (taped to the underside of the couch, which John thought was quite clever of him) and plugged it into his laptop. The conversations he had heard between Sherlock and Moriarty had turned his world upside down.....and that was before he forced himself to endure the sounds of their...fucking.

 

The things he had learned had left John a changed man. The plans that they had made, the games they spoke of playing, the experiments on live human subjects....it was absolutely repulsive. And it had bloody _hurt_ that Sherlock had meticulously planned his own suicide....planned to make John watch him fall.

 

At least he hadn't went through with the elaborate Richard Brooks plan that they had been considering. John didn't think he could deal with all the press and publicity that would have caused. No, there was actually very little drama surrounding the actual event. Sherlock had called John and pleaded with him to understand, told him that he just couldn't take the strain of it anymore...told him that he didn't want to end up crazy like Moriarty so he had decided to end his own life before that could happen. Ironic, really, now that John knew the truth.

 

It had been two weeks since the fall, two weeks that John had spent holed up inside 221B trying to come to terms with everything. Mycroft, Greg, and a few others had been by, but he had refused to see anyone besides Mrs. Hudson, and even then only to offer her vague reassurances through the door.

 

He needed to get away, to just leave everything and everyone ever associated with Sherlock bloody Holmes behind him and never look back. It was the only way he had any hopes of keeping his sanity. It was time to get in touch with one of his oldest friends. He was one of the very few secrets that John had managed to keep from his former best friend and roommate.

 

John slowly got to his feet and retrieved his laptop before sinking back into his chair again. He opened the screen and typed in his password when prompted. In a few clicks, he had his blog brought up and was changing the settings from "public post" to "private post". He chucked at that. Nothing could ever be kept private from the people he was about to contact.

 

John slowly typed out a single word, only 7 letters, that he knew would change his entire life. He took a few minutes to make sure that this was what he wanted, that he was truly prepared to drop everything and leave the life that he had spent the last year building. In the end, it was an easy decision. After all, what did he really have left that wasn't tainted by Sherlock's memory?

 

_Not a single damn thing,_ he thought and then he pressed ENTER.

................................................................

 

Thousands of miles away, a phone trilled out a low note. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed man reached into his suit's pocket and pulled out a sleek little phone as he slipped into the back of a taxi.

 

"Where to?" the driver asked gruffly. The man opened his mouth to respond, but froze as his eyes darted over the screen of his phone.

 

"The airport. Make it fast," he replied, a hint of urgency in his tone. As the car departed, the man slipped a hand into another pocket and then brought his fingers up to insert a small device into his ear.

 

"There's been a change of plans," he spoke softly. "I need a flight back to London."

 

"Don't tell me you've already managed to blow something up. You've only been in the country two days," a voice answered dryly. The blonde man chucked ruefully before sobering.

 

"Dr. John Watson added a post to his private blog a few minutes ago."

 

"Did he now? Hmm. Let me see." The clacking of fingers on a keyboard could be heard clearly for a few moments and then "Oh. OH."

 

"Yes," the blonde replied as he stared down at the single word that was flashing across the screen of his phone. "I need on the next flight back to London."

 

...................................................

 

Back in London another phone beeped sharply, causing the man behind the desk to cringe slightly as he wondered just what the hell else could possibly be going wrong now. He opened his phone to see that John Watson had posted a private blog entry.

 

"Skyfall," Mycroft Holmes whispered thoughtfully, his sharp mind assessing and dismissing possible meanings of the word.  Anthea walked into his office carrying a thick folder full of papers.

 

"Sir, there's been another threat against the Queen. I need to know how you want to proceed with this one."

 

"When isn't there a bloody threat against the Queen?" Mycroft murmured, all thoughts of skyfall starting to fall away from his mind. He had already calculated that the most probable explanation was that John felt as if his world had collapsed after Sherlock's "suicide". He made a mental note to try going by the flat again next week. Sherlock always did have a habit of breaking his toys, and it had always fallen to Mycroft to put the pieces back together.


	2. Chapter 2

Less than ten minutes later, John was startled when his laptop screen went totally blue and the little red light lit up, indicating that his webcam was currently in use. A few seconds later, a small black text box appeared. John grinned. MI6 definitely didn't screw around.

"Hello there," John said, staring into the camera. There was no need to subject anyone to his abysmal typing skills, especially someone who could hack his computer from untold miles away. Words rapidly appeared on the screen, making John chuckle as he read them.

**Hello Dr. Watson. The stories I have heard about you couldn't possibly all be true.**

"If Bond is telling them, probably not. I'm sure he downplayed them to make himself look better. Q, right?" John asked, thinking of the younger man that Bond had spoken so fondly of when he'd visited him in the hospital after he'd been shot.

**Do I even want to know what Bond has said about me.**

"Might be interesting," John mumbled absently. "How secure is this line?" After a brief pause, the answer came.

**Very.**

"Will it keep out Home Office?"   The reply came quicker this time.

**Yes. Idiots, the lot of them. Should I be concerned, Dr. Watson?**

"Call me John. And no, it's nothing really. I've a bit of a stalker that works there, is all. He likes to say that he occupies a minor position in the British government," John answered with a wry grin.

**I sense there's more to the story. I could always ruin his credit and cancel his bank cards, if you'd like. All I need is a name.**

John laughed loudly at the thought. "That would be lovely, although probably not possible. His name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

**You don't do anything by halves, do you? Perhaps 007 truly didn't overestimate your penchant for getting into trouble.  I can't believe MI6 didn't scoop you up years ago.**

"Not for lack of trying," John replied, smile fading. "As you well know, I was roped into working with them for one very long mission. That was well enough for me."

**Your work was crucial. That mission saved half a million people from being eradicated.**

"That mission is also responsible for eighty percent of the scars covering my body and months lost of my life that I spent recovering in an Afgany hospital. Forgive me if I don't find myself particularly enamored with your agency, Quartermaster."

When a minute passed with no response, John sighed. "I'm sorry, it's still a bit of a touchy subject. The whole thing was highly classified so I've never really spoken about it. Guess I'm still a touch bitter."

**Perfectly understandable, Dr. Watson.**

"I told you to call me John. Trust me, after all the intimate information that James shared about your personal lives last time we spoke, it's only fair," John said with a smirk.

**I....Very well, John. Although I feel I must share that I'm not the only one our dear Mr. Bond likes to gossip about. Or should I call you 3C?**

"I can just about _see_ your shit-eating grin, Q," John replied with a blush. He had almost forgotten about his old nickname.  He decided a change of subject was in order. "So, do you think you can sneak me out of here without my stalker noticing?"

**Hacking CCTV is not a problem. I can be there with a car in a few hours. 007 is on his way back, but I still have to make arrangements and brief a new agent to finish his current mission.**

"Thank you," John breathed, relief palpable. "Mycroft also has a surveillance team stationed in the white van across the street."

**Tad bit obsessive, isn't he?**

"You have no idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos/comments/subscribes/bookmarks. You all are amazing and have left me blushing! As always, all feedback is appreciated :) Next chapter will be longer, promise!


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later found John staring out the kitchen window, laughing as he watched Mycroft's minions being carted off in handcuffs. The white van was being towed off, and John couldn't help but picture the look on Mycroft's face when he heard about it all.

A beep from his laptop pulled him away from watching the chaos. He made his way into the sitting room and grinned widely as he read the new message.

**Your two peeping toms have been dealt with. I do hope our dear Mycroft appreciates the humor.....I may have had a bit too much fun when fabricating the charges.**

"This should be good. Although I should point out that other than sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, Mycroft Holmes doesn't appreciate much. Actually, I take that back. He is _quite_ fond of cake as well," John replied as he double checked to make sure he had the few items that he'd decided to take with him. His gun was tucked into the back of his trousers, his cell phone in his pocket, and his laptop and cell phone chargers were rolled up and shoved in his other pocket. Everything else he'd decided to leave. Even the skull, which he had affectionately dubbed "Shirley", would be left behind, though he had seriously considered taking her with him. He _needed_ to start completely over, though, and having any reminders of his old life would only hinder his progress.

**Noted. Okay, CCTV is down and ETA is 3 minutes.**

"Ta," John replied, shutting his laptop and taking one last look around. His gaze fell on Shirley and he swore that the skull was making eyes at him, pleading for him to take her. How something that had no eyes could make eyes at him, he didn't know, but the skull was giving it a good go!

"Fine, fine. You win! Bloody buggering hell, I've gone round the bend," John muttered as he made his way over to the mantle and gently picked Shirley up. He'd need to wrap her in something soft, he decided, as he made his way to the kitchen. 

He was right next to the kitchen table when a sharp pain shot through his leg, his nerve endings alighting causing John to cry out in agony as his leg gave out beneath him. He fell into the table, upending it and the various experiments that John had never had the heart to move. Several beakers shattered causing glass and who knew what else to fly everywhere. Papers scattered, what looked to be a human eye rolled across the floor, and one of John's teacups was propelled across the room and into the wall with enough force that it actually exploded, old tea raining down in rivets.

Several moments later, the pain passed and John pushed a hand onto the floor to propel himself up. He grunted when he felt the glass bite into his hand, staring in disbelief at the red that welled up and out of his body. And then he glanced around and all he could do was gape in morbid fascination at the absolute wreck that was now his kitchen.

"It's all your bloody fault," John told the skull as he carefully picked it up, examining it to make sure it hadn't been broken in the fall. His bloody hand left crimson drops along the cranium, a startling contrast to the white of the bone. With a sigh John sat the blood-covered skull back down on the floor and grabbed one of the small kitchen towels that was sitting on the counter and wrapped it around his injured hand.

Realizing that Q was probably already outside and waiting for him, he had no choice but to leave everything as it was. He muttered a quiet goodbye to Shirley, thoroughly convinced that his fall had been a huge flashing sign from the universe to leave the skull behind. With a last glance around, he huffed a laugh thinking that it was almost appropriate to leave 221B looking like a murder scene. Fitting really, seeing as how a (not so) small part of him had indeed been murdered here and would never leave this flat.

Pushing back tears that he'd promised himself he wouldn't shed anymore, John grabbed his laptop and walked out the door.

\-------------------------------------------

"Sir, there's been an incident." Anthea's voice sounded wary even through the phone. Mycroft repressed a groan as he glanced at his clock to see that he'd barely managed an hour of sleep.

"Indeed," he murmured, the word coming out somewhere between a statement and a question. Mycroft sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"It's John Watson, Sir. He's missing." Mycroft was instantly fully awake, dread pooling low in his stomach.

"His security?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Detained." There was an odd edge to her voice that Mycroft couldn't quite place.

"On what grounds?" he gritted out through clenched teeth.

"Stalking, Sir." There it was again, that odd lilt. Humor, Mycroft realized. Anthea found something about this sordid situation humorous.

"And..." he drawled, knowing there must be more.

"There might have also been a secondary charge of indecent exposure and possible sexual battery for fondling and propositioning an elderly woman. It seems the person who called in to the police was very specific."

"I am surrounded by idiots," Mycroft muttered, sighing loudly. Anthea's breath kept hitching in a way that Mycroft new meant she was very close to laughter. "The officers actually picked them up on those clearly falsified charges with no proof other than a mysterious phone call? Even knowing the meager intelligence the police force possess, I still find that hard to believe."

"Not when both of their records indicate previous simular charges. Apparently their "granny fetish" has been thoroughly documented." Mycroft stilled instantly, a chill shooting through him.

"I checked their records personally before I assigned them security duty," he said in a steady voice. "They had no priors."

"They do now," Anthea said, voice quiet. "This was a professional job, no trace left behind. It's as if the priors have always been there. I have our team of specialists analyzing it, but I don't expect anything to come of it. Whoever it was, they're much better than anyone we have."

"CCTV?" Mycroft asked, already knowing the answer he'd receive. Anthea was very good at what she did, and for her to say this hacker was much better than her, they would have had to do something more impressive than planting a few falsified files.

"Every camera in the city has been playing the same exact footage as yesterday. They looped the cameras so seamlessly that not one of our analysts noticed a thing wrong until I discovered the footage from Baker Street had been tampered with. As far as we can tell, we've been completely blind for the last seven to eight hours and will continue to be so until we can find and isolate the problem. Or until the loop runs out. The best I can tell, the hacker set up a 24 hour loop that will actually fix itself after the allotted time has passed."

"I see," Mycroft said softly, the many implications of what had been done flowing swiftly through his mind. "And Dr. Watson?"

"Gone, Sir. Detective Lestrade is already there processing the scene. There was a struggle in the kitchen where blood that is believed to be Dr. Watsons was found. The only things missing so far seem to be Dr. Watson's laptop and phone." There was a brief pause and then, "How should we proceed?"

"Have a car ready, I'll be down in ten minutes." Mycroft's mind was buzzing, theories and explanations being examined and dismissed at a frightening speed.

"There is one more thing, Sir." Anthea's voice was tentative, almost hesitant.

"Out with it," Mycroft demanded sharply, patience already at an end.

"When I came in this morning, your office door was slightly ajar. I investigated immediately and found that someone had left you something on your desk. It was a cake."

"A cake?" The utter confusion and disbelief was thick in his words.

"Yes, Sir. It's a large chocolate cake with writing on it." Another pause, in which Mycroft made an impatient noise to show his unhappiness. "It says: "Cake is not an advantage, Mycroft."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! You are all awesome!! Forgive me if this chapter seems weird, I've been told I have a strange sense of humor ~laughs~


	4. The Frequency of What?!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I was really sick for a while there. This hasn't been beta'd or brit-picked, so I'm sorry in advance for any mistakes you might find :) Thanks for all the kudos and comments and <3\. You people are awesome!

"For some reason, I expected you to be taller" were the first words John Watson heard as he slid into the sleek little car that was waiting for him outside 221B. He couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up as he looked the driver up and down.

"And I expected you to be older. Are those spots I see, Quartermaster?" John asked, still chuckling.

"Ha, bloody, ha. I can see why he likes you so much," Q muttered under his breath as he put the car into gear. "Buckle up!"

"Yes, Sir!" John smiled as he mockingly saluted Q. The quartermaster grumbled under his breath again (something that sounded suspiciously like "Dear Linux, there's two of them") but seemed satisfied.

They rode in silence for a while as John stared out the window, wondering what to do next. He knew that MI6 could probably relocate him just about anywhere, but he still wasn't sure where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do.

"James should be back by morning," Q said suddenly, bringing John out of his thoughts. He glanced over at the quartermaster, noticing the way his skin was faintly flushed and his fingers were fidgeting on the wheel.

"I'm sorry," John told him, finally noticing how uncomfortable his silence had made the man. He grinned sheepishly.  "I got distracted for a bit there."

"Understandable, considering what's happened," the young man replied, the flush on his face getting more pronounced as he said guiltily, "Did you know Mycroft keeps a file on you?"

"I would truly be surprised if he didn't." John laughed, causing Q to return it with a chuckle of his own.

"I wonder if it would surprise you to know just how thorough your stalker is," Q murmured teasingly, shooting a mischievous look at John, who groaned.

"I don't think I want to know." John grinned. "You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"I know everything about you from what underwear you wear to what brand of lube and condoms you prefer. And that's nothing compared to the report that I read titled 'Frequency of Masturbation'. There was an astonishing correspondence between a certain purple shirt and.."

"I get it, I get it. Bloody Mycroft," John all but yelled, causing Q to laugh so hard that the car actually swerved a bit. John could feel the heat on his cheeks and knew that he must've been red-faced. John groaned again and covered his face with his hands.

His phone chose that moment to ding, indicating that he had a text. He pulled it out and sighed as he saw Harry's number on the screen. Opening it, he felt his chest clench at the nonsensical, mistyped words that meant Harry was once again drunk and probably needed a ride home.

He had tried to call her after everything that happened, but he had never gotten an answer and this was actually the first time he'd heard from her in months. He knew how his sister was, but somehow it still hurt, especially when his phone dinged with another text, a bartender sending him the bar's address, confirming his theory.

John stared at his phone for a moment and then quietly turned it off. He was so tired of being used, tired of trying to be a good person only to have everyone that was supposed to care for him walk all over him. He needed to get away from his life before the bitterness ate him alive.

John sighed as he rolled down the window. He stared down at his phone morosely. 

"You don't have to do that," Q said quietly. "I can make it untraceable for you."

"I need this," John replied equally quiet as he tossed his phone out the window. He watched in the rear view as it bounced a few times before he turned back to Q and forced a smile. "I believe you mentioned earlier that you had a spot of fun with Mycroft's minions...?"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'granny fetish'?" Q asked, staring up at him with innocent eyes for a moment before looking away with a snicker. John just stared at the genius, mouth hanging open in awe as Q told him exactly what he'd done.

The rest of the drive seemed to fly by as Q told John about some of James' latest mishaps and shenanigans and John told Q all about the cases that he had been forced to leave off his blog for security purposes. He had thought it would be harder to talk about Sherlock, but something about Q just seemed to click with him and he found the words flowing out.

By the time they pulled into the yard of what Q had dubbed his "hidey hole" (which was really a small cottage in the countryside that even MI6 didn't know existed), John felt as if he'd known Q his whole life. He could honestly see why James was so taken with the boffin.

"You're really good for him, Q. I can see why he loves you," John told him sincerely as they walked toward the door. He laughed loudly as he watched the young man's face flush red. Just as Q was about to respond, the door was suddenly thrown open and John found himself tightly embraced within James' arms.

"I'm sorry about what happened, Johnny. I know how much he meant to you. I'm here, I've got you," James murmured in his ear. John sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and let himself go boneless, finally finding comfort for the first time since this whole mess had started.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  In this fic, Q became Quartermaster long before Skyfall and Silva hasn't made himself known......yet ;D
> 
>  
> 
> .
> 
>  
> 
> Some lines were taken directly from Skyfall to set the scene. No copyright infringement was intended.

**\------6 Months Later-------**

 

**"I may have a shot. It's not clean. Repeat, I do not have a clean shot."**

Eve's tense voice sounded loud as it came through a small speaker sitting on the table. M met Q's gaze and his stomach twisted at the look on her face.

"Don't even think about it," Q whispered.

**"There's a tunnel ahead, I'm going to lose them."**

"Can you get into a better position?" M asked, turning her back to Q and breaking their stand off.

**"Negative, there's no time."**

"Take the shot."

"No!" Q exclaimed, his face showing betrayal and rage as he stared at M who still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I said take the shot," M ordered.

"Don't do this," Q pleaded desperately, taking a step towards M.

**"I can't, I might hit Bond."**

"Take the bloody shot!" M yelled.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Q snarled, throwing himself towards M, only to be held back by Tanner. A shot rang out, causing everyone in the room to freeze as they waited for Eve to report.

**"Agent down. He had the computer drive when he fell."**

"You heartless bitch," Q said softly, tears blurring his vision as he finally fought free of Tanner. Silence reigned as he quickly made his way out of the room and down to his office. As soon as the door was shut, he crumpled against it, sliding down to the floor. Great gasping sobs spilled from him as his grief overwhelmed him.

Long minutes passed before the Quartermaster was able to get ahold of himself somewhat. He slowly forced himself to calm down as he tried to decide what to do next. He couldn't stay here, he knew that. He could still hear M's cold words ringing in his ears, the betrayal ripping and tearing at him. James had looked upon that woman as a mother, how dare she do this!

He needed to leave before he did something stupid. A small part of his mind was already designing the codes necessary to bring MI6's servers to its metaphorical knees. He could do it within minutes, he knew. _It would be so easy_ , he thought, his fingers twitching in anticipation.

_Here be dragons._ The words flittered through Q's mind in a voice that sounded suspiciously like John's. His mind desperately grabbed onto the thought and that was all it took for Q to know where he needed to go. He needed to get to John.

Q forced himself to stand, though his legs were still shaky. He grabbed his empty scrabble cup and a few other things and shoved them into his messenger bag. Next was his laptop and a few of the prototypes he had been working on. He'd be damned if MI6 ever got any use out of them!

Next he logged into the system and deleted a few files that he had kept on the server. Most of his work was kept on his personal laptop and was thankfully not in the MI6 system, so it didn't take but a few seconds for Q to clear out everything that he wanted. He was severely tempted to leave a virus behind, but settled instead with making another backdoor into the system for himself.

When he opened the door to leave, he was surprised to find Harold, one of his newer interns, fidgeting nervously outside his door.  Judging by the look that he threw him, Q was sure he must look as awful as he felt.

"Sir..?" Harold twitched again, as if trying to hold himself back, before breaking down and franticly exclaiming, "It's just awful! Every single computer in Research and Development suddenly crashed and then the sprinkler system came on and soaked everyone and caused Rhonda to slip and drop the exploding pen prototype she was working on, which then flew across the room and hit the wall by the firearm prototypes and the whole thing blew up! No one was hurt, but they're afraid they've lost months of work and were hoping that you could help them recover it?"

"I'm on leave," the Quartermaster murmured, trying not to look guilty. So he wasn't able to leave without causing a tinsy bit of damage, could anyone really blame him?

"B-But, Sir!" Harold sputtered loudly, "It's an emergency!"

"I'm sure you're more than capable of handling it, Harold. In fact, I'm leaving you in charge of Q branch during my leave," Q said, his lips lifting in a ghost of a grin.

"Such an honor," Harold breathed out, awe coloring his tone. The poor thing looked like he was going to faint.

Q took the opportunity to slip past him and out the door. No one else bothered him and soon he was slipping into his car and headed to his flat to pack. Already, he could feel his emotions trying to overtake him but he brutally shoved them down again, silently praying that he could hold himself together long enough to make it to John.

Sadly, the ex-army sniper lying in wait at the lanky Quartermaster's flat had other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Thanks to all of you who have left me some love, it certainly makes my day!!

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! <3


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